


You're My Drug Of Choice

by RakshaGoldenCub



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Both boys are inept at working through their problems, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, OFC Therapist POV, One-Sided Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Point of View Play, Set During Season One, UST, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 11:03:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7615540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RakshaGoldenCub/pseuds/RakshaGoldenCub
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When therapist Erin Bedelia returns to London for the first time in 10 years, her friend D.I. Lestrade sets her up with a new client: Dr. John Watson. Though her job begins as a simple PTSD-trauma therapy, it soon becomes clear that Sherlock and John both need therapy - couples therapy preferably. As the danger of Jim Moriarty enters their world, her life and their love is put to the test.</p><p>Set during season one</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're My Drug Of Choice

When she first arrived at 221B Baker Street, she was surprised to find the door already open. A man with dark, curly hair filled the doorway, his arms crossed with a look of contempt she couldn't even begin to fathom. “Hello," she tried for pleasantries anyways. "Do you know where I might find a man named John Watson?”

“Not here.” His face said it all.

“Fantastic. I was hoping to speak to him immediately. You’re a terrible liar, by the way. I don’t know if anyone has ever told you that. Your eyes dilate when you lie.”

The man was obviously not amused by that, though it didn’t seem as if his anger was directed at her, necessarily; at least not all of it. No, he was miffed at himself for not being able to lie to her. Fascinating. Would that be self-esteem issues or self-confidence ones?

“John doesn’t need another therapist.”

“Who said I was a therapist?”

“You’re left-handed, with deep calluses on the first knuckle of your ring finger and in the curve between index and thumb. Writer then. Multiple ink stains on your wrist say you’re constantly laying your hand on the paper. So not a writer – they’re much too interested in their work to rest their hands on it – yet someone who writes in short intervals. When you pulled your wallet out to pay the cabbie earlier, I didn’t see an employment ID card, so wherever you work you’re one of few.”

“You were watching me pay the cab?”

“Furthermore, your shoes say sedentary work, but your legs say that you exercise daily. Your job doesn’t require a uniform, yet you dress nicely anyway. Such a need to look good? Most likely you have a private practice, but you have to stay fit and professional to match against your mostly male contemporaries. A woman working against male contemporaries in a private practice where she writes in short intervals? Therapist. Obvious.”

“Obvious. Right. Anything else?”

“You’re single, you live by yourself with two cats, and you’re the older sister of your family, though you haven’t seen your brother in a long while. You’re from London originally, but your accent is stunted slightly so you’re recently returned. Family reasons, perhaps?” Though she felt it coming and tried to school her expression, her eyes twitched and he smirked as she proved his deductions correct.

Just as she prepared to reply, an old lady with curly, dirty blonde hair walked into the hallway, a hefty bin of laundry in her hands.

“Oh, dear," the lady began, "why are you standing out in the cold like this?”

Sherlock looked affronted by the niceties. “She was just leaving, Mrs. Hudson." 

“I’m here to see John. I presume he isn’t back yet.”

“He’s gone out, but I’m sure he’ll be back soon.” She turned to the curly-haired man. “Why don’t you take her upstairs? It’s not right, leaving her out in the cold like that.”

The man looked ready to argue but held his tongue. With a twirl of his coat he was heading for the stairs, expecting her to follow. Only once they arrived in his living room with the door closed shut did he finally acknowledge her again.

“And no,” he said simply.

“No?”

“You asked if I have ever been told I’m a bad liar. No. I have not been told that before.” Ah. Self-confidence issues then. 

The therapist couldn’t help but ask the curly-haired man, “Do you always analyze the people you meet with absolutely no care to how it will affect them?” 

“Usually,” was his response, his smirk rising his lips faintly. 

“How often do you make someone cry from your analysis?”

“I try for at least once a day.”

She was impressed by his honesty and couldn’t help but goad him with, “You could use a therapist as well.”

“There’s nothing you could tell me about myself that I couldn’t read already.”

“Oh is that right?” He’d obviously never had counseling before.

“Yes.” His expression begged her to prove him wrong, but futilely accepted that she would be incapable of doing so.

She tried anyway. “You’ve grown up always getting your way. So you came from a rich family, then. But you don’t use their money now. Either you cut them off or they cut you off. With a personality like that I’d guess the latter. You’re the youngest child so you expect attention, yet you obviously didn’t receive it often enough, which explains your demanding personality now. I’m guessing that rich parents like yours didn’t always have time to take care of their kids.”

“You have, and I’m guessing on the gender for this one, an older brother.” His eyes glanced towards the street momentarily, but she couldn’t follow his line of sight without giving away that she recognized the moment. “If what little attention your parents could spare when they were around went to you, their youngest, he would have acted out to garner attention, either through being difficult or being perfect. I can’t imagine he’d be more difficult than you, so he was the perfect child then.”

“Must have gotten pretty far in his life for you to hate him so much. I’d say a politician, but he wouldn’t have been used to the public attention that would require so it’s doubtful. I’d argue lawyer next, but again it would require too much attention. With an expression like that, you’re probably not sure what he does exactly.” His eyes flicked upward again, and this time her eyes followed his to the CCTV camera trained on them instead of the road it should’ve been staring at. “Oh, definitely something in the government.”

“As for you, you’re a detective – no one would learn to read people so well if they didn’t have a use for it. And with an attention-seeking personality like yours, you’d require an audience to use your deducing skills on. But you don’t have the personality of someone who likes to follow rules, so you’re not on the force. I’d argue private detective, but that wouldn’t make sense. Detective Inspector Lestrade sent me here; if you were a private detective, there’d be no reason for him to know you or trust you as he obviously does. So a…consulting detective? There can’t be many of you out there.”

For the first time in a long time, the man replied with, “I created the position.”

“Of course you did. Shall I continue?”

“Please.” His expression read amusement, but his eyes had by now hardened. He was at once both impressed and annoyed. People obviously didn’t read him like this very often.

“As a consulting detective, you’d be working with the police force a lot, but D.I. Lestrade must be one of your favorites to work with. He’s the only one you’re remotely nice to, and is probably one of the only men who can shut you up – else he wouldn’t have sent me to this address. The rest of the force must hate you. I can only imagine why.” 

“You consult on crimes, but you can’t possibly get paid for that. The Met can barely afford their actual detectives, let alone a consulting one. So you do it for fun. It’s a thrilling experience to you. You must get very bored when there isn’t a crime to consult on. That’s a very unhealthy hobby. Although it’s probably better than the recreational drugs you used to busy yourself with.”

“You think I’m a drug addict?”

“You were at one point, but if John Watson, a military doctor, has chosen to live with you, you must have quit. I’d bet you were a smoker too at one point.” He didn’t reply with an affirmative nor did he immediately balk at the suggestion. When his eyebrows deepened into his forehead, asking her to continue, she pressed on. “You’re the younger sibling of a perfect child with parents that were at best emotionally-absent and at worse physically missing. You crave attention and a way to irritate your family. Using drugs is the easiest way to infuriate proper upper class parents. Alcohol would be a close second, but alcoholic children are just so common these days. You created your own career. You would hate to follow the norm. So, drugs it is. I’d offer my thoughts on what kind, but without seeing the inside of your elbows I can’t be sure.” 

He smirked. “Anything else? Your logic is fascinating.”

“You use your deductions to make people hate you even though you’re not necessarily wanting them to hate – you just don’t have the finesse to put up with trivial emotions. I’d say you were a sociopath, but that’s much too strong a term to explain you since you’re obviously very protective of the few people you do care about. More likely, you lack empathetic recognition and for that most would wrongfully consider you psychopathic. Then again, your attention needs probably consider the term a compliment. You probably like to think of yourself as a sociopath, even if you don’t go around telling people you’re such.”

“Lastly, you value your mind over the rest of your body. In fact, you’ve almost disregarded your body completely. Skinniness like that doesn’t come from a high metabolism alone. Combined with the dark circles under your eyes, you have little respect for your body at all. But these actions don’t combine to create merely a cry for attention, not completely. You just don’t respect your body enough to accept its desires. It’s not just mind over body for you. It’s mind over living – surviving even. It’s probably a very good thing that you have obtained a live-in doctor to make sure your body acquires some relief.”

Speaking of the live-in doctor, the detective and her finally broke their staring contest when they heard the slow steps of his flatmate coming up the stairs.

John Watson was only mildly surprised at a guest in the flat. “Hello,” he said evenly, his eyes flickering towards his consulting detective.

“Hello,” she said from her seat in the armchair. “You must be Dr. John Watson.”

He stood up a little straighter and cleared his throat. “Yes.” She was almost surprised not to hear a Mum at the end.

“I’m Dr. Erin Bedelia.” She stood up to meet him and his hand came out to shake hers almost before he’d thought of it. “D.I. Lestrade told me that you were looking for a new therapist.”

“Ah yes of course. He said he knew someone who might be able to help.” John turned to the consulting detective that was still perched on the armchair, his eyes glaring at the two conversing. John’s look asked whether the man had been polite to their company or if he had, probably as usual, scared off any newcomer that John received into his life. Younger sibling. He never learned how to properly share.

The detective didn’t bother to respond – merely huffed and dragged himself to the desk in the corner, turning to and logging onto the laptop placed there. That seemed to annoy John more. His computer maybe? Oh the detective was most definitely latching on to latent childish tendencies. “I’m sorry about Sherlock. He’s not usually so—”

“Yes he is. But I’m a therapist; I’ve dealt with worse than him.” Sherlock? She recognized that name. Sherlock Holmes, the man had been the papers recently – solved a murder but she couldn’t remember the story. She wasn’t very much up to date with London news.

“Right. So, do you normally make house calls?” John asked when his attention returned to her.

“Not normally. But my office was only half a dozen blocks away and I needed the exercise after sitting in a chair all day.” Sherlock huffed out a breath that just screamed “I knew it”. 

John glared at Sherlock’s curls before returning back to her with a smile. “Would you like some tea?” 

“Yes please.”

She followed him into the kitchen and almost wished she hadn’t. If the living room was a disaster, the kitchen was a science experiment gone horribly, horribly wrong. Noticing her expression, John immediately apologized for the state of it.

“I’ve seen worse.” That seemed to be her catchall statement when it came to Sherlock Holmes. 

John pulled out two cups from the one shelf that seemed untouched by Sherlock’s experiments. He then turned towards the living room. “Sherlock?” he called out. “Do you want a cup?” The detective didn’t answer but John pulled a third cup out anyway.

As he puttered with the stove, he asked, his back facing her, “So how do you know Detective Lestrade?”

“He’s an old, family friend. I used to work in Washington D.C. doing therapy consultations with the American military.” Another huff sounded from the other room. Good to know he was at least eavesdropping on the conversation. “But I decided to return to London. First thing he tells me when we meet up is that he has a friend looking for a new therapist.”

“That’s convenient.” John’s eyes jolted towards the living room as he said it, making her wonder if there was a similar story about his meeting the extremely overprotective Sherlock Holmes.

“So are you a consulting detective as well?”

“No, no. I work at the London medical clinic – doing check-ups, routine medical exams, the like.” 

The teakettle started to boil just as he finished speaking, so she didn’t see his face as she commented, “Sounds boring for an army doctor.” 

“Dreadfully. But it pays the bills. And I assist Sherlock on some of his more difficult cases.” Ah, she thinks. Dr. John Watson has a need for adventure that Sherlock Holmes is happy to fill for him. No wonder he puts up with the bad attitude and the mess. Someone hasn’t left the war scene just yet. 

John set the three now-filled teacups onto a platter with the kettle, and she followed behind as he walked them into the living room again and set the platter down on the one table that wasn’t covered in papers. Obviously John had picked the few spots in the flat that were meant to be his and Sherlock had accepted them and left them uncovered. 

Domesticity suited the two very well.

He motioned for her to sit in the armchair she’d been relaxing in earlier before he walked to the desk area and handed the still sulking Sherlock his cuppa. He didn’t bother to turn or acknowledge the kindness – too focused on whatever forum he was searching through – though after a beat he picked up the gift and drank from it anyway.

Because of her thoughts, she almost didn’t hear John begin speaking again. “My old therapist – I don’t know if you met her – Ella Thompson. She’s the standard name the Army gives out for ex-military men.” She’d never heard the name before, but that wasn’t surprising. Relieved of duty army doctors rarely got the best London had to offer. “She wanted me to keep a blog to help return me to normal life.” 

They both turned to look as Sherlock scoffed at the therapist’s suggestion. After a beat, she responded with, “That’s the go-to recommendation we’re supposed to give to men returning from the war, especially if they don’t have family to go back to. Did it not work or did you not do it?”

“I keep a blog about Sherlock’s cases.” Definitely doesn’t handle just a few of Sherlock’s cases. He needs a part in the majority of them. Good to know they both get off on playing detective.

“Do you think it helps?”

“Not really.” His lips tighten and he looks apologetically at her as she takes a sip of the strongly brewed tea. “I mean, no offense; I’m sure it helps plenty of other guys.”

“No offense taken. I try not to follow such a standard procedure for my clients.” Not to mention that any therapist worth their degree could tell a blog wasn’t going to be enough to force John Watson to stop missing the war. “Have you made any new relationships since returning?”

“Well Sherlock here. And Mrs. Hudson downstairs.”

“We met briefly,” she interrupted. “She seems like a lovely woman.”

“That she is. Also Lestrade and I go to the pub sometimes. There’s a few people at the clinic too.” Sherlock scoffed, as if he didn’t approve of John having other friends. 

“Any romantic relationships?” Through sheer force of will, she held off glancing at Sherlock.

“A couple but nothing serious.” The loudest scoff of all came from Sherlock’s direction and she didn’t miss the glower that momentarily passed John’s face. It didn’t take a therapist to figure out that John wanted a long-term relationship but Sherlock was his proverbial cockblock each time. 

Sherlock had an addicted personality – that much was obvious. And right now John Watson was his drug of choice. He’d rather possess completely than share John with others. Yet the two obviously shared a profound bond. 

Was Sherlock so protective of John because he was one of his few – if not his only – friend or because he held more romantic notions towards the doctor? Was John aware of this clinginess? And more importantly, were the feelings reciprocated?

Well, if tonight was anything to go by, John and her would have plenty of time to discuss these questions during their sessions.

______________________________________________

Later on, while sitting in the cab taking her back to her flat, she was mildly surprised when her phone vibrated in her purse. The phone and number were new. Greg was the only one with the number and she doubted he’d be texting her at midnight.

**He doesn’t need a therapist –SH**

The text was obviously from Sherlock, and she couldn’t help but smile and consider. She was only away from her purse for a few minutes while getting the tea with John. Either Sherlock was curious enough about her to rifle through her belongings or he’d called in the older brother to dig up any information they could uncover. Then again – and her eyes glanced toward the CCTV on the street corner that she’d swear was scrutinizing her every movement as they waited at the stoplight – maybe the brother sent it of his own free will. Sherlock wasn’t exactly the type to ask for help.

**An ex-military doctor with PTSD seeking thrills through dangerous detective work with his sociopathic flatmate to curb his reverse culture shock? I’d say he needs one. –EB**

The reply back was nearly instantaneous.

**Wrong –SH**

**I could always do couples counseling for the both of you if you’d prefer. –EB**

She couldn’t help the shit-eating grin on her face when she didn’t get a reply back immediately. The next morning when she checked her phone and saw no new messages, the grin returned.


End file.
